


Truth-Telling

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: A Ribbon at a Time [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: Adaar tells a number of stories about the way she lost half of one horn, each one better at parties than the last. The truth is just too ugly to tell.





	Truth-Telling

Sometimes, if Adaar does it right, a thick book and a furrowed brow keeps away the various entities who want to talk her ear off through dinner.

She could just take the meal in her quarters, of course, and dispense with the entire rigamarole of it, but—and this is hard to admit, even to herself, but she has to do it—the dim quiet up there unnerves her. Since Haven—since the last, longest night—she does not like to be _alone_. She is, regardless; there is a distance between her and every other person here that she can’t bridge. But as long as she is among them, _nearby_ them, the creeping tightness in her chest does her a damn favor and loosens up a bit. As long as she can hear the pointless chatter of guards off duty (three of them trying to cajole a fourth into making her feelings known for a fifth, the stout dwarven woman who never smiles; Adaar finds her lips quirking up at that), and the occasional laughter flaring in the grand hall, and feel the body heat warming the place in a way that even repairs to the walls haven’t done, then the dark press of a night filled only with a sickly green flare falls backward.

And there’s a particular laugh that, if she’s lucky, she’ll hear. No chance of that in her lofty quarters.

She takes up another spoonful of stew—the parsnips are awful, but the potatoes good—and as she’s scanning the next page of the dusty tome unearthed from Skyhold’s cellar, she hears it, from across the hall where a crowd of better-dressed people are gathered, drinking wine that was _not_ unearthed from Skyhold’s cellar: a carefully-pitched laugh, perfected for the nobles, seamlessly putting them at ease.

Not as good as the real thing, but good enough. Josephine puts on a certain...mask...while she interacts with diplomats. Adaar doesn’t like describing it that way, but it’s true; she wreathes herself in some invisible stuff that allows her to work an entirely different kind of magic on these people than the kind that the world is currently tearing itself to pieces over. It’s a little unnerving.

But what chance does she have, these days, of getting a few minutes with Josephine without that mask? Slim to none. The Inquisition is booming. She’s in demand, every hour of every day and some hours of the night, besides. The days of Haven—when Adaar could sneak in an hour here or there, under the guise of business but always devolving into gossip and friendship instead—are at an end.

So Adaar stays where she is, half her mind on her book, eating by rote, and sifting through the voices in the hall to listen to the conversation surrounding Josephine. It’s almost like being there, even though she can’t catch quite all of it.

“And that’s...the horns?”

Nobles who haven’t yet met or identified the Inquisitor yet, then. If Josephine can talk them out of coming over to gawk at her, Adaar will be impressed.

“Yes, that is Inquisitor Adaar.” There’s an edge to Josephine’s voice. Adaar clearly missed some insult in the noble’s question, or maybe Josephine is just taking offense to someone pointing her out by her horns. A fond smile uncurls over Adaar’s mouth.

The noble’s voice lowers further, in contrast to the firm tone of Josephine’s. Even a newborn in The Game would have realized that her voice meant, _go no further down this path or some of your tasteful and useful alliances will become a burden to you_ , but this noble’s got the bit in his teeth.

“Do you...one...broken?”

Ah. A point of fascination to the indiscreet: her broken horn, the one that got caught on the roof of a cave because she’s so, so tall, the one that got snared in a trap meant for a bear because she was young and clumsy, the one that got knocked against stone when she hit the ground in a drunken brawl and simply could not hang on after that. Varric has nineteen tales for how he came by Bianca, none of them true; Adaar has many more for how she lost part of that horn.

“I have not presumed to ask.”

Well, this won’t do. Josephine shouldn’t ruin all her hard work in this conversation protecting Adaar’s imagined pride or privacy or whatever. Without any indication of planning to do so, she abandons stew and book and pushes back from her seat; a few people nearby gape at her in surprise at the movement, startled. She ignores these, finally locating Josephine and her hangers-on with eyes after an evening of using only ears, and she strides around the table to make straight for them.

Those funny little masks do so impede the vision; even the fellow asking about the horn doesn’t notice Adaar coming. Josephine, though, does, and her eyes meet Adaar’s with a clear warning: _Stay out of this_.

She underestimates Adaar, sometimes. Doesn’t she realize that Adaar’s put on a stupid mask before, too, doing a number of dances before nobles who wanted to hire her—her skill, her brutishness, her body—but didn’t want to think about what might be tucked between those horns?

She snags a glass of wine off a nearby platter, thanks the stars that she put on a nice clean coat this afternoon after sparring with Cassandra, and steps smoothly into the conversation. “I hope you don’t mind the interruption,” she says, with an easy smile and a sketch of a bow. No, she is not cultured, she is _casual_ , she is a funny oddity at a museum, here for them to gawk up at. She can’t make out their expressions through the masks, but she knows body language, the stiffening of a spine to steel one’s resolve, the shuddering of a shoulder giving away the flinch of fear.

“Not at all,” one of them says a little breathlessly, the first to bend her knees in a curtsy; the rest hastily follow suit with their own bows and curved necks. “Your Worship,” she adds, and the brief delay of the appropriate address says: _I may be afraid, but I have my pride._

Well, that's what Adaar thinks. She's willing to admit she doesn't read these spaces between words as well as some other people probably do. But she likes to make up things to fill them, regardless.

The man who’d asked about the horn gives the briefest bow of them all, and when he straightens, his eyes fixate on it again. Greedy, fascinated. Josephine—Adaar is standing close enough beside her to hear every irritated rustle of her dress and chain of office, however minute—opens her mouth, probably to divert the conversation, but Adaar says, dismissively, “Ugly, isn’t it? Sometimes I miss being symmetrical.”

The greedy eyes widen. Startled that she noticed his blatant stare, impressed by the low bar she’s cleared with her powers of observation? They expect so little of her.

“I didn’t mean to offend, Inquisitor,” he says, lowering his gaze.

“Oh, please, not at all. It’s quite the story, if you’re interested.” She casts an apologetic look at Josephine, playing it up. “Though if I’m interrupting business, please, just say the word. Lady Montilyet tells me I can’t just go blundering into these things.” A laugh, a self-deprecating chortle. “If I’d had her around five years ago, maybe I’d still have the horn.”

She can see in their eyes that they’ve all begun to smile, indulgent, almost patronizing—but interested. Chomping after that bait. And the body language, previously fearful, begins to relax. _That’s right_ , she thinks. _I’m just a big funny bear here to do some tricks for you before lumbering away where you don’t have to worry about me anymore. Enjoy the show._

“Surely we have time for a tale from the Inquisitor herself,” another of the women says. “I’ve heard so many stories.”

Josephine regains control of herself. Maybe this is unfair; she never _lost_ control. But she is thinking again about The Game now, not about Adaar’s imaginary pride. “Please,” she says with a gracious smile, “it is a _wonderful_ tale.”

Adaar tells the version best suited for Orlesian nobles: it involves an ill-placed tapestry, an aggressive nest of tuskets, and a job completed despite the loss of the horn. She tells it to polite laughter increasingly becoming uproarious, until even Josephine’s eyes are crinkled at the corners and her laugh has become real again. Even though she knows this is just another story. She’s heard several of them, by now, some in detail and some in passing.

As the story winds up and everyone catches their breath through a few lingering chuckles, Adaar turns to Josephine with a smile. “Can you spare a moment?” she asks. “There’s a correspondence that really should be finished up this evening—I’d like your final review on it.”

She’s regaled them, she’s entertained them, and now she hints at what they really need her for: holding the world together. There are a few tiny nods of approval, of seeing that she has _some_ business sense in her head.

And Josephine plays along. “Of course,” she says, and “please, help yourselves,” to the nobles, and they all murmur goodbyes and do their silly curtsies and bows—Adaar makes one of her own, sharper this time—and they drift away to talk to others in the hall.

In silence, Adaar leads Josephine toward the door not so far off, the one that passes through to her office. Adaar opens the door for her and Josephine walks by, dipping her head in gratitude, and in the glimmer of light, Adaar notices something strange: a shiny bit of fire agate dangling on a slim golden chain in Josephine’s hair. She recognizes it as the gemstone she found in the mud on the Storm Coast a couple of months ago, something she sent back to Josephine after cleaning it.

Her heart swells. That this is some acceptance, some return, of her affection does not cross her mind; she is only happy that Josephine liked the gift enough to utilize it. To wear it in front of Adaar’s betters.

The door shuts quietly, and in the dim room, with the low-banked fire, Josephine draws a slightly ragged breath. None of her attendants are here; it is just them.

“I’m sorry I got involved,” Adaar says, returning her voice to normal with effort. She does not shed the act easily; it’s why she prefers not to put it on at all. “I know you wanted me to stay out of it.”

Josephine lets out a little laugh. A sad little laugh. “I only wanted to spare you from talking about something I know is unpleasant to you. No matter how you dress it up. Foolish of me. You handled them very well.”

“Thank you,” Adaar replies—more for the first sentiment than the last.

“You always surprise me.” Her voice is so soft that Adaar wonders if she was really meant to hear it.

“For the better, I hope.”

“Very much.”

Adaar hesitates, thinking. She shouldn’t take this particular plunge. It’s not a good story, after all. It won’t make Josephine laugh. But she feels...compelled, somehow, toward some imagined closeness.

“You’ve heard a few different versions now,” she finds herself saying. “Which one is your favorite?”

Josephine turns to face her. “My favorite? It’s hard to choose. You tell them all with such gusto.”

“Do you ever wonder…”

She does not need to finish; Josephine takes her meaning immediately, and a thoughtful frown crosses her face. “Of course,” she says. “But I wouldn’t be rude enough— _callous_ enough—to point and whisper about it.” In the wash of firelight, there’s a sharpness to her features, a coldness. She carries daggers of her own; if that dim noble could hear, he would flush from the impropriety she’s accused him of.

“I can tell you,” Adaar offers. “If you want.”

Josephine’s eyes—murky in this dim light—search Adaar’s face, reading something there. “Only if _you_ want,” she says, unbearably gentle, “if it would help to have an ear, then of course, I am here to listen.”

Adaar looks down at the glass in her hand, the untouched puddle of wine. “I think I’ll need something stronger than this.”

Josephine immediately goes to her desk; Adaar watches, increasingly amused, as she shuffles around through a few cavernous drawers and eventually comes up with a thick-bottomed glass bottle full of a fine amber liquid.

“Antivan brandy,” she says, and with an air of defensiveness, adds, “it’s very good in tea. Late at night, you understand. When I should really be sleeping anyway.”

A smile breaks over Adaar’s face, a fond laugh following it that she can’t stifle. “Its medicinal properties are best when unhindered by tea, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

She pulls a few tea cups from another drawer. “I’m glad we understand each other, Your Worship.”

For a moment—just a moment—Adaar nearly tells her to hang formality, but she resists. This is Josephine’s way of showing Adaar respect, the respect that she thinks Adaar deserves and doesn’t receive, and it would be unkind—cruel, even—to throw that back in her face. Adaar takes it for the compliment it is and lets it lie.

Besides. After a little brandy and a gruesome story, the names will come out. Just like that night in Haven. There is a little guilt—only a little—that Adaar can look back on that ugly week with any fondness, but in times as they are, she’ll take what comfort she can.

They settle on the settee in front of the fireplace, with their teacups of brandy and the bottle between them, and Adaar turns the cup in her hands, considering how to begin. She’s never told this story to anyone.

“I’d been with Shokrakar and the Valo-Kas for about a year,” she says finally. Context. Context is important for truth. “I was maybe twenty years old. We took a job to clear a cave system that was close to a town—lot of giant spiders, they were causing problems for the villagers. We got in, did our job, and camped out that night in the mouth of the cleared cave.”

Josephine listens, teacup perched delicately in her hand. Adaar takes a gulp of her own brandy, shakes off the old cobwebs with the burn of it in her throat, and continues.

“I was on watch duty. Middle of the night, and I was tired. Struggling to keep my eyes open. And already a little injured—my kind of fighting, I have to get pretty close to a thing to hurt it, and giant spiders are a lot bigger than me. I’d gotten a bit chewed on. We had a mage—Kaariss—and he’d healed me up, but it always leaves you...tired.” She almost adds, _you know?_ before she remembers that Josephine duels with words, and maybe hasn’t been chewed on before.

Nevertheless, she nods in agreement.

“So that’s why these toughs from the village caught me off guard,” Adaar says, wincing at the memory of her own sloppy work. “Knocked me out. The others woke up and fought, but the villagers managed to drag me away. I woke up in one of their houses.” She clears her throat. “They’d already sawed halfway through the horn, at that point.”

Josephine must have seen this coming, because her next breath is just a little sharp, not an outright gasp. And she doesn’t ask _why_ , but Adaar tells her, anyway.

“Guess some of the villagers took exception to mercenaries. And Tal-Vashoth, in particular. Thought we were using the job as an in to walk around town and maybe terrorize and rob anyone we wanted. Or maybe it’s simpler than that; I didn’t ask them.” She shrugs. “No nerve endings in the horn, understand. They get itchy around the base when the weather’s too hot and dry, but the horn itself? I could feel where I was tied up, where they’d strapped my head to the ground so I wouldn’t move, but the only reason I knew they were sawing into the horn was the sound it made. And the saw itself, making my head move back and forth, just a bit, with every stroke.

“They were pissed I wasn’t screaming and wailing and crying from the pain. Idiots. They did me more damage when they knocked me out with that rock. But they kept at it, anyway, sawing away, and one of them decided it would be much more satisfying if I would just _bleed_ , so he got out a knife and started cutting right down my cheek.”

She touches the lingering scar. It’s a long time past, now, but she can still feel the too-dull edge of that knife pulling through flesh, approaching her jaw. She can remember the panic of that moment, the blind desperation of it, as she realized that the knife would pull down her neck and she would die. And despite how improbable it had seemed—that she would only last one year with the Valo-Kas and then die to some backwater villagers with prejudices—that knife had kept cutting. She puts the cup of brandy down so that when her hands shake, it won’t betray her.

“I don’t remember the next part very well,” she admits. “I was bleeding out, and then there was a lot of noise, and the knife went away. Someone’s—Kaariss’s—hand was over my neck, fixing the wound. And then all the noise died down and I heard Shokrakar say, ‘Sorry, Adaar, the horn’s almost all the way off, anyway,’ and there was this... _thump_...as her axe swung down and cut the rest of the way through it.”

Josephine has put her cup down, too, though Adaar missed when. This is why she’s never told the story: unlike anything else, unlike any other memory, it has the ability to put her back in that awful, dank room—the cellar, she’d figured out later, so that hopefully if she screamed it would be muffled by the earth and the village wouldn’t wake. With the knife coaxing the lifeblood from her. With the broken piece of her horn lying beside her.

Josephine’s hand creeps over to curl around hers, putting her back where she should be: in a cozy room on a comfortable settee with the brandy burning in her gut. And Josephine’s hand is warm, soft—with little callouses here and there from her many writing implements, in peculiar places—comforting.

“We didn’t get paid,” Adaar says, summarizing now. “We just got out. I could hardly believe they came and got me. Mercenaries. You don’t expect it from them. But Shokrakar...she complained about it all the way to the next job, but she came back for me. That was what mattered.”

She doesn’t know what else to say. This is the truth, as neat as she can make it, skirting some of the worse details: that the Valo-Kas had fled, ceding payment, because no matter what those villagers had done to Adaar it likely did not excuse the slaughter of the lot of them. At least in the headman’s eyes, probably. They hadn’t stayed to find out.

“After you had done nothing but help them,” Josephine says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Shokrakar took me off talking-duty for a while, after.” Adaar manages a smile. “When I first joined up, they liked me to talk to the clients. I’d lived among humans—and a couple of elves, the occasional dwarf—my whole life. I talked to them like I was one of them. That was all I’d ever understood. But that...changed, after. I saw why the Valo-Kas were the way they were. Not so high a price to pay for understanding, I guess. I got better eventually.”

Josephine’s hand squeezes. “You nearly died.”

“And we all nearly died when the Breach opened up,” she replies, “but we’re no closer to understanding that. In comparison, it’s the more worthwhile near-death experience.”

She dares to look up at Josephine. Josephine, who’s fighting tooth and nail for control of her own expression; her pretty eyes are haunted, staring at something that Adaar doesn’t see but can imagine clearly.

Adaar’s hand squeezes, this time. “I know it’s bad,” she says softly. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to go all stoic on my account.”

“It’s awful,” Josephine says, in a voice that’s low and strained. “I don’t see how you just...make stories out of it.”

“Easier than the real thing. Better at parties.”

Josephine’s eyes refocus on Adaar’s. The pale attempt at humor doesn’t work. There’s a deadly seriousness in her face now, an anger. “No one will do that to you,” she says. “Ever again.”

Adaar’s smile widens, just a little. “Are you going to protect me?”

Not a mockery, not teasing. A real question.

“By the time I’m through,” Josephine says, jaw set with a grim determination, “they will be too in awe of you—too _amazed_ by you—to dare. The stories they hear will make you into someone who cannot be trifled with.”

“There’s always the odd cultist,” Adaar points out.

“That is what Leliana is for.”

Adaar brays out a laugh—her first real laugh of the entire evening, loud and unabashed. “And this,” she comments, holding up the gloved hand that shows only a trickle of light from the anchor, “if they get close enough.”

At this, Josephine laughs, too, the sound of it a little wild. Adaar sloshes more brandy into both of their teacups and they drink deep in between hiccups, dulling the raw edge of the moment. Their hands broke apart, at some point. Adaar already misses that contact.

“I’ve probably kept you too long,” Adaar says, when the silence has grown so comfortable that she’s in danger of never breaking it. “I interrupted, earlier.”

“They will be there in the morning,” Josephine says without hesitation, decisively, waving this away. “We haven’t talked in far too long. This has been very somber, but I...I’ve missed you.”

Her face flushes a little red as she says it, her eyes darting away, lowered beneath long, dark lashes. Ah, hope. Traitorous hope. Glimmering like that piece of agate in her hair, catching the firelight. Pretending that the blush is because she’s embarrassed to admit her true feelings, not because of the alcohol catching up to her.

“Let’s talk of pleasanter things, then,” Adaar says, and—because there has been brandy and a painful, personal story, and it has made her a little brazen—she reaches out to touch the gem dangling from the chain. “Did I tell you where I found this? You wouldn’t believe it.”

Startling, Josephine reaches up to touch the gem, too, and their fingers brush. It is a different energy entirely than when Josephine held her hand through the ugly tale, offering comfort; there is an electricity here—maybe imagined by Adaar, maybe not—reminiscent of a thunderstorm.

“Oh,” she says, still coming off a little flustered. “You noticed. It was just so pretty, I didn’t want it to sit away in a box.”

“It is,” Adaar agrees. “It suits you.”

Josephine opens her mouth to say something, but what, Adaar doesn’t know; she closes it again, sheepishly, as if she’s lost her train of thought.

“Better than the muddy grave some fool left it to,” Adaar adds, and then she’s off again: telling a (slightly embellished) story of a dirty, wet fight on the Storm Coast, a tumble down a muddy path, a deluge of rocks dislodged at the end of it. Josephine laughs—and laughs, and laughs—disbelieving but fond regardless.

This is enough, Adaar tells herself. It has to be.


End file.
